


At The Eye, In The Ice

by An_ah



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Angst, Fairytale Vibes, Gen, Hypothermia, Man's not hot, Memory Loss, Neet and Xiel froze the boy to death and I'm here for it, Temporary Character Death, The Wind has the best intentions, Whump, Winter Spirit Varian (Disney), winter spirit au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25975864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_ah/pseuds/An_ah
Summary: In the middle of his mad chase through Zhan Tiri's blizzard, Varian meets with the wind.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	1. 26 °F (-3.5 °C)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AristoRaccoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AristoRaccoon/gifts), [one_neet_writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_neet_writer/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Winter Comes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395934) by [Xiel (AristoRaccoon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AristoRaccoon/pseuds/Xiel). 



> Just a quick little thing for Neet and Xiel's awesome [Winter Spirit AU](https://neetart.tumblr.com/post/624333821201039360/winter-spiritvarian-au).
> 
> Check out their work, they're both amazing. ❄️

With trembling knees and numb fingers, Varian leaves another mountain behind. He’s almost grateful for the steepness that meets him, letting him slide down quicker, and he dully hates the snow deadening his step as he stumbles more and more in the grey whirlwind of the storm.

He must keep running.

The warmth of the royal palace had disappeared behind a heavy door a couple of hours ago, along with the guards’ frowns and the ardent hope that Rapunzel would come to save his father, and that he would be the one to bring her along in a heroic feat.

Varian hunches his shivering shoulders when the wind creeps up on him again, mercilessly following him down the sloping hillside. It’s almost a dance—it swerves, and his red scarf writhes away, it blows in his face and his hood jerks back, and the snow blinds him; it forces itself on his back and he falls to his knees.

And then he gets up, always gets up, because he must keep running. He had wasted enough time on this worthless trek, this grave mistake, and he won’t waste another minute. He must be close to Old Corona now—it’s waiting just behind the next hill looming over his shuddering frame, or the next, or the one after that. Soon, he’ll be greeted by Ruddiger on the house’s threshold, and he’ll run to his dad’s aid, and… and… he’ll do _something_.

He tries to breathe through his nose, lungs burning with every desperate gulp of air, teeth grinding beneath his tingling lips. His muscles seize against the cold. He’s slowing down, his body screaming for rest and warmth, and it feels like the wind is laughing at the meagre strides as it whirls around him.

Once, Dad had told him that Mom loved these mountains. _She said you could almost feel the earth’s pulse running through them_ , he remembers. _She called it the scariest of beauties._ That might’ve been the moment when Varian had decided that he loves the mountains too, no matter how intimidating they are. Now, more than ever he sees that Mom was right—it’s terrifying to be here in the middle of this blizzard, attacked from all sides, but suddenly Varian fails to see any beauty.

It’s even more terrifying to think about what awaits if he leaves this place too late.

He falls again, and forces himself up again, crying out. He arrives at the feet of another towering peak. This one is gentle, and he knows there’s a safe cavern waiting for him at the top, but it still brings burning tears to his eyes that he has to climb up again.

The air around him suddenly smells of ozone and frost, a whiff of danger, and the wind hits him again as it passes through him. A young tree on Varian’s left yields to its current and bends in half, but he walks strong and refuses to stop. Frigid air violently tugs at his coat and seeps through it. It feels like it’s gnawing at his bones. _He can feel it_ , the pulse his mother had taught him about from beyond the grave, mighty vibrations all around. He’s scared.

All of a sudden, the wind changes direction again, this time crashing into his back. He falls face-first into the snow, his hands too weak to save him from hitting the freezing ground with his cheeks, a clumsy mess beneath his gloves. Varian’s staff rolls down the hill, and this time hot tears roll down along. He doesn’t know what to do, should he go on, should he go back for the light? And so he cries, because it’s too much, because it hurts, because he needs to run but he can’t anymore.

The cruel wind knocks him down as soon as he rises again.

“STOP!” he screams at it, pouring all his fear into a hoarse attempt to outshout its roar. “Pl-ease!” The wind steals his sob anyway, and Varian watches his breath disperse in front of him. He pushes his goggles up, not really knowing why.

He braces himself against the wind and—

“ V a r i a n . ”

He falls back with a yelp, the icy air caressing his face almost like a hand.

“ D o n ’ t r u n a w a y . ”

As if he could.

“ Y o u d o n ’ t h a v e t o b e a f r a i d . ”

The wind blows across his right cheek, then the left, and his tears dry. “W-ho’s there?!” he yells against his chattering teeth. Air vibrates in a bell-like titter. Somehow, Varian knows it’s there, even though he can’t really _hear it_. It tosses his hood away again, and the almost hand-like touch moves to the back of his head. He whips around. “Who’s… w-what are y-you?”

“ W h a t a r e _y o u_ ? “

Varian frantically looks around, but all he can see is his scarf waving in the wind in a circular motion, turning into a blurred ribbon swirling around him. “I’m—” He catches it with trembling fingers, and the wind seems to release its grip on it. He gasps. “L-listen, whatev-ver you are, p-please leave me alone.”

“ Y o u c a m e t o m e .  
C o m e c l o s e r . ”

He clutches his scarf with the little strength he still has, afraid that… that _something_ will play with it again. It flops down, suddenly unaffected by the roaring storm around Varian. “No!” He’s still searching for the source of this mysterious ‘voice’ but only sees snowflakes dancing in the most random, chaotic ways. It’s unnatural. “Where are you?”

“ I ‘m r i g h t h e r e . “

He scrambles back when he senses something invisible touch his jaw. It feels like a small gust of wind, somehow concentrated into a cool, gentle hand. Suddenly, it blows away, as if it hadn’t meant to scare him. “Are you… the s-storm?” he asks, tentatively.

“ I a m p a r t o f e v e r y s t o r m . T h i s o n e , I d o n o t e n j o y .  
C o m e c l o s e r , V a r i a n . I ’ l l k e e p y o u w a r m . ”

“How do you know my name?” he whispers. The air around him seems to sigh.

“ W e ’ v e m e t . ”

Varian scrambles to his feet, now that the wind had quieted down a little. “When? H-how come you never spoke to me before?”

“ Y o u n e v e r n e e d e d m e . I n e v e r n e e d e d y o u .  
I w i l l g i v e y o u w a r m t h . C o m e . ”

He takes an unsure step forward, up the blurry mountain, hoping to see a familiar cave, and then a familiar river once he’ll come out on the other side. But as he raises his head, he sees no cave—he’s looking at a completely different side of the peak. He looks back, and his heart drops.

A trail of chaotic, dragging footprints stretches behind him, a slalom mottled with hollow smudges in the snow in places he had fallen. He had been walking this entire time, away from his direction, circling the hill instead of climbing up toward the safety of his cave.

“Where are you taking me?!” he yelled, frightened.

“ T o t h e e y e o f t h e s t o r m .  
I t w i l l b e w a r m e r t h e r e . ”

Annoyance disrupts his fear. He can’t afford to stray away from his path; he needs to get to his dad… how much time had he even spent talking to this thing? “No! How can you be warm, anyway?”

“ Y o u s t o p p e d s h i v e r i n g . ”

He had.

“I c a n b r i n g h e a t l i k e I c h a n n e l t h i s c o l d . I p a s s b e f o r e t h e s u n   
a n d m o o n b u t c a s t n o s h a d o w . I d o n o t h a v e l i p s , b u t I c a n h o w l   
a n d b i t e ; I d o n ’ t p o s s e s s w i n g s , y e t I r o a m a b o v e t h e w o r l d .  
Y o u n e e d m y h e l p .”

Varian stops in his tracks. He feels their curiosity, their _cheerfulness_ , contrasting with the solemn way they speak. They’re challenging him, perhaps hoping to be entertained by his cluelessness. Tough luck—their riddle is miserably easy.

“You’re the wind,” Varian tells them. He finally stops searching, knowing that wherever he directs his gaze, he will be looking straight at them, and they will be looking back.

“ Y o u ’ r e j u s t a s b r i g h t a s I k n e w y o u t o b e . ”

Their voice—their not-voice—feels husky and melodic, like a lullaby sung with a smile. The world seems to tilt at the sound of their fond laughter. Varian’s head tilts along, whether due to the cold or some other power, he doesn’t know.

“ I c a n h e l p y o u . ”

“Don’t make... promises you c-can’t keep,” he slurs and the wind whines. Then, an idea pops into his foggy mind. “Can you… could you maybe, uh, take me ‘ome? Old Corona? Or at least... outside of the mountains?”

“ I c o u l d o n l y g u i d e y o u t h r o u g h t h e m . ”

He doesn’t have it in him to rejoice. “Okay… good,” he pants.

“ B u t t h e r e i s n o p o i n t . Y o u w i l l n o t m a k e i t . ”

Their sad words don’t frighten him, though they probably should. He doesn’t believe them. “Fine, so… so you can’t help after all,” he mutters. “I’ll… just, I’ll go. B’myself… don’t take me anywhere.”

Varian starts forward again, even though he’s not sure of the way anymore. He figures that as long as the mountain’s peak is on his right, he should arrive at the other side. Eventually, he will reach and cross the river, jump on the ice floes, and from there it will get easier.

He can’t run anymore. He can’t—he tries but fails time and time again, so he settles for a stubborn march, whispering wet apologies.

How long has it been since he had spilled his newest compound over the black rocks? Four hours? Five? How quickly is that crystal growing?

_Varian, watch out!_

He should’ve stayed. Dear heavens, he should’ve stayed, why had he left?

It’s difficult to connect the movements Varian makes to his aching limbs. The wind seems to be talking but he can’t focus on the words. He isn’t sure their voice is even real—if it ever was. Everything is slow and far away, and suddenly hot, and the destination in front of him is the last thing Varian holds onto as he persistently stumbles onward.

_No, son! Don’t!_

“H-hey… wind…” he breathes. “Can you see… my father?”

“ Q u i r i n . ” The voice immediately appears at his side. They’re following him.

Varian’s head drops a little, a terrible weight, and he removes his scarf (the wind can have it) to fight the unexpected heat that had hit him. Something about that tries and fails to alarm him. His body screams at him to sink to the ground with each slow breath he draws.

“Yeah, can you… can you blow… open a window,” he explains clumsily. “Get ins… take a look.”

Another mighty gust of wind knocks him down, and the scarf slips from Varian’s hands. He tears his temple from the ground when the strong air current comes back, whistling.

“ H e i s n o t t h e r e . ”

The wind’s hand appears on his head, stroking his hair.

“Wha… where…”

“ H i s b o d y i s e m b e d d e d i n a m b e r .  
Y o u r r a c c o o n i s n e a r b y . ”

The wind stills when Varian collapses back into the snow, burying his contorted face in it. The storm keeps roaring—the storm the wind dreads—but they withdraw from the ground, chasing snowy clouds away. They work viciously, howling with all their might, circling the boy on the ground and separating him from the uproar until he’s surrounded by swirling snow, a small tornado of frozen fractals shielding him.

Varian isn’t sure if he’s awake.

“ I c a n s a v e y o u . A s k m e . ”

He remembers he’s supposed to get up and do something. It’s urgent. It’s burning.

Ruddiger’s cool nose against his would be so nice right now.

“ I b r o u g h t y o u t h e e y e o f t h e s t o r m . A s k m e . ”

He’s crying.

His mind isn’t cooperating.

It’s so cold.

“ V a r i a n . ”

He curls up, suddenly remembering that he should preserve heat. “I-I’m—Dad…” he whispers. “I’m sorr—I’m so, so…”

The last tear escapes his eye and the wind thinks the storm had stolen his life before they could take it in, but then—

“Help me,” he gasps. _“Save me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, so this just happened. 😅  
> (I definitely didn't google "riddles about wind" while writing this, absolutely not.)
> 
> I have a few ideas for a second chapter. Let me know what you think! 😊✨


	2. 14 °F (-10 °C)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varian's spirit is not quite frozen, but maybe it should be if Wind wants to save him.

Varian doesn’t remember waking up.

In truth, he’s not sure he had ever been asleep in the first place, but sometimes he feels like there must have been something _before_ , because how else would he have dreamt about laying in the snow surrounded by a swirling whirlwind of frozen fluff, and lifting as if the air in his lungs had been lighter than the air that Wind commands.

The dream is an unpleasant almost-memory. _Save me_ , he had whispered with a very difficult breath—that’s how he knows it was a dream, because he breathes cold and easy. _Save me_ , he had asked with blue lips and closing eyes, and then there had been pain, so much pain—that’s how he knows too, because there’s never been pain. He had felt it just pricking at his skin at first, thousands of tiny punctures—the cold felt like jumping through a conifer forest then—and it had been deep in his bones too, a dull pressing ache of warm water engulfing freezing joints.

Sometimes he catches himself thinking a lot about the dream, as he calls it, and Wind always tells him that he should pay no mind to his own tale. They’re looking out for him—they say they have seen pain, that it _does_ exist, and that it’s far more terrible than what Varian’s imagination supplies him with. Sometimes when he’s sad and wanting, they say that there’s pain in his mind.

He had asked them about their name as soon as they gifted him with his. They explained that he is Varian, though people will sometimes call his doings “Winter”; but that’s because they never meet him and they don’t know that it’s him who helps direct what had been crafted with Wind’s participation eons ago.

“ Y o u c a l l m e W i n d . ”

 _“Well,”_ he had eyed them with curiosity. _“What do you call yourself?”_

“ I n e e d n o n a m e f o r m y s e l f , m y d e a r . ”

And so he finds himself calling them Wind, though he knows speech very well—somehow—and he likes coming up with new names. He loves how Wind laughs at “whoosh” and “nyoom” and “Nancy”, but he’s terrified of the anger that “storm-bringer” arises. Soon, he finds that Wind has been given many names, that some of them are mean and wrong, and he’s grateful to just be Varian, even when he envies Wind their ability to roam the sky and blow for the entire year.

They can be hot and cold, dry and humid, they’re nowhere and everywhere at the same time—they are so much wiser than him and have seen so much more.

Varian just knows cold and the dream. He doesn’t remember waking up.

He doesn’t remember.

_Swish!_

Oh, how he loves jumping trees, swooshing through the forests and deliberately getting pine needles into his wild unruly hair so they ridiculously stick out in the white bangs falling into his pale eyes, just because he knows that Wind will rustle them out as soon as they flow by.

They’re always with him, in a way, even when they’re very busy. They enhance his every jump and stride with one of their many many hands. It’s how he’s able to leap so far and land so light, it’s how he travels the peninsula so fast when he shapes up the winter.

_Swoosh!_

Varian’s first winter had been long and out of place. As soon as he had come into existence in the heart of the mountains, choking on his first breaths, fascinated by his own slow heartbeat and getting to know his name, he had been dancing in tandem with Wind’s doings. They had lifted him as he filled his lungs with soothingly freezing air and spun, swung, twisted and clawed. There had been something terrifyingly amazing about exposing his wrists and neck to the frost, about straining his muscles and bending his spine miles above the highest peak, and he had soon found that he couldn’t stop.

Even after the storm Wind disliked so much had miraculously passed in one moment, the mountains were cold for a long time. Now, it’s his second winter ending, and Varian is itching for more.

_Thump._

He lets go of the strong pine he’s been holding onto and gracefully lands on his feet. There it is!—some melting snow, still there thanks to the cliffs’ and the forest’s shadows, ah thank the heavens for small miracles. Happy to leave the bright sun, Varian enters the gentle cool of the newfound shade. He knows he shouldn’t take off his gloves and press his palms to the snow, shouldn’t interfere with the coming Spring, but he can’t resist the urge to feel a little stronger again. Besides, who cares about some leftover snow apart from grumpy old people clearing the pavements?

It’s not as cold as he’d like it to be, so he conspicuously looks around and freezes back some water in the muddy ground. _ “Oops, sorry, I definitely didn’t mean to.” _ He lifts his hand with a smile. Frozen droplets follow suit, so he throws them into the air and lets them fall onto his head. He’ll maintain the ice and wear it like gemstones in his hair for a while, why not? They’re so pretty and will keep him stronger. A little bit happier.

He sits down on the newly frozen ground, surrounded by the snow he already misses so much. Wind will be annoyed—they often tell him how they’re proud that he’s able to control himself better now, and here he is, stealing what little Spring has done for the land. Wind is always like that, going off about balance and how there’s a time for everything, and how he’s supposed to know when it’s time to let the ices thaw.

But Wind is busying themselves with something else right now, only a gentle breeze absent-mindedly caresses Varian’s face. He closes his eyes and lets some of the snow melt in good will. Cold water is slowly trailing down his forehead. He freezes, then leaves it and freezes it again when it tickles his skin.

 _ “When evening of winter hath come,” _ he sings in his breathy voice, _ “a tale-teller beckons to hum.” _ He has no idea where he’s heard this melody. Perhaps Wind had carried it one day and it’d escaped his attention.

Something rustles nearby, so he lazily opens one eye. It’s probably a squirrel, moping about his presence in the forest. It had probably seen him freeze the underbrush earlier, a clever little spy.

 _ “Under the stove, he takes off his glove,” _ he hums on. _ “The fire turns into his drum.” _

Time to move on. Wind is focused somewhere on the coast nearby, getting to ride the waves and helping them destroy the last of Varian’s ice floes. _ “Lucky,” _ he scoffs. He should run over there and freeze some of the water anew, just to get at Wind’s nerves. He would turn some rain into hailstones but the last time he had done that, he’d broken a window and for some reason, it still gnaws at his conscience. Wind is angry with him for manoeuvring an ice pane in the window’s place. They had rebroken it, saying it’s unnatural and telling him to come to terms with the damage he has to cause.

What a steaming pile of bullshit. Varian takes perfectly good care of Winter, nothing wrong with being kind and gentle where he can. He doesn’t want to be as terrifying as he had been in the beginning, scampering in the Coronan fields with Wind as if in some deep rage. Nowadays, the worst Varian wants to do is pinch people’s noses with the cold. He likes people. They’re strangely similar to him, only warmer, and their hearts beat so much faster. He kind of spies on them a lot.

Suddenly, something dark races toward him, apparently with every intention of smashing into him. He dodges it easily, pretty impossible to be startled, and calmly turns around to see it stop abruptly, digging its paws into the ground.

Varian giggles. _ “Whoa there!” _ he mocks the animal good-heartedly. _ “Hello. What are you doing?” _

It whips around, a pair of widened honest eyes taking the place of a fluffy ringed tail. Varian can hear the raccoon’s heartbeat speed up as it approaches him, this time clever enough to do it calmly. It chitters, but Varian doesn’t know its language.

Now, _animals_ , animals are worth the time. And the spying. They’re awfully different from him, and from each other. They don’t hide from Winter as much as people do, and they can see him if they want.

 _ “Oh I don’t speak raccoon, buddy,” _ he explains and the little floofer stomps in place in nervous excitement at Varian’s ghostly sound. Isn’t that curious?

Perhaps he should speak more solemnly, just as Wind does. He makes a serious face and raises his voice as much as his barely existent breaths allow him to. So, he whispers _but very loudly_ , _ “I do not understand your speech, my friend.” _

The raccoon tilts its head, and Varian can swear it sort of raises an eyebrow. _ “Pfft, okay no, never trying that again,” _ he snorts. Being an ominous presence evidently hasn’t ever been meant for him. Corona’s winters shall never look like he knows what he’s doing then, an unpredictable but playful time. He just needs to be calm. _ “Sorry! I’m kinda new to this whole… thing. You’re probably older than me, random raccoon.” _

It saddens, or at least that’s what it looks like. Damn it, tugging at Varian’s heartstrings. _ “Are you thirsty?” _ He releases his grip on the snow around them and it immediately thaws, sinking into the ground and leaving small puddles in the forest floor.

The raccoon startles backwards, fur suddenly all raised. _ “Hey, no no! I won’t hurt you, I’m just curious is all!” _ Varian should put his gloves back on to avoid freezing something by accident and scaring his new friend away. _ “I’ve never met a raccoon, you’re all so skittish.” _ He lowers himself to the ground, sitting down cross-legged, and waits for a response. The animal looks at him with unnerved interest, almost worried rather than suspicious.

 _ “And in the wintery days, he’ll sing you his fabulous tales,” _ Varian continues his hushed song. _ “Out of the flame, he’ll make you a game.” _ The raccoon is close. It’s quite adorable. _ “And send his music ablaze.” _

Can animals cry just like people do? Varian will have to ask Wind. For now, he figures it would be polite to introduce himself. _ “My name is Varian. It’s me who brings all the cold.” _

As soon as he tells it his name, the raccoon runs up to him again. This time, Varian doesn’t dodge, catching it instead as it almost throws itself at him. Not really knowing what to do, he snuggles it close and strokes its fur—it’s nice and soft. The animal stiffens a bit, perhaps at his coldness, but it feels good to hug it, it feels… warm. Pleasantly warm.

A wet nose bumps into his chin, and that’s when Varian’s brain splits in half.

He falls onto his back, frantic chittering somewhere near his left ear. The raccoon scrambles back just when Varian does. Trembling hands are clutching at the front of his coat as Varian gasps, and suddenly there’s pain and anger, and _fear_ , so much fear, and he doesn’t know what to do. A strangled sound rips from his throat as he leaps to his feet and stumbles for the first time in his life as he backs away. He’s sobbing; he doesn’t know why but this is very very wrong, and suddenly he feels like he isn’t grasping something important. There’s an unnamed danger all around.

A mighty gust of Wind unexpectedly ruffles the bushes above Varian’s head (when had he fallen again?) and he shields his weirdly wet face. _“Wind!”_ The raccoon has backed away by now, only its shivering silhouette and beady eyes visible in the shadows.

“ L e a v e . ”

Wind is warm and humid. They’re too warm too suddenly, it’s too much—he immediately freezes, the world freezes along, and the raccoon lets out a terrified sound. It bravely takes a few steps forward anyway, and Varian stumbles back.

_ “Wind!” _

He jumps onto a nearby spruce, Wind helping him up and supporting him as he dashes above the forest, leaping from one tree to another. His heart is racing and his hands are trembling, and _this is wrong_ , and he cries as he discovers these new things: anger, fear and a completely new pain in his mind.

Everything’s frozen around Varian, even the waves on the sea stopped mid-way. He sits curled up on the beach for a long time before Wind speaks to him again.

“ M y b o y . ”

He’s sobbing. _ “W-what is this?!” _ It’s so hard to draw a breath. _ “What’s h-happening?!” _

“ H o w d o y o u f e e l ? ”

_ “Don’t you know?!” _

“ N o . I a m a l w a y s w i t h y o u ,  
b u t I w i l l n e v e r k n o w w h a t y o u a r e .  
Y o u r h e a r t i s y o u r s t o k e e p . ”

He tries to collect himself and releases some of the sea, letting it turn back into the raging, flowing water it’s supposed to be. The shore remains frozen no matter how hard he tries, and he cries harder with no idea what’s hurting. It’s painfully reminiscent of his first days of Winter.

“ T a l k t o m e . ” Wind ruffles his hair and gets rid of the pine needles, just as Varian had predicted. They play with his scarf for a bit, and he can almost feel their desperation to comfort him.

He presses cold fists against his eyes, and the tears freeze on his face. _ “I don’t know! I’m—scared and angry,”  _ he whimpers. _ “I don’t know. And I… I’m crying, why am I crying? It hurts.” _

Wind is patient with his whining. They playfully hit his face with the pair of gloves he’s supposed to be wearing at all times, only using his staff to spread cold where he wishes. He slips them on, grateful that Wind had fetched them for him.

 _ “I never knew what it’s like to be scared.” _ Varian wishes Wind could hug him. _ “Why now? What’s changed?” _

” N o t h i n g h a s c h a n g e d .  
I t ’ s t h e w a y y o u a r e.”

He takes the scarf from Wind’s careful hands and presses it across his eyes. _ “I don’t like it.” _

“ M e n e i t h e r .  
I t h o u g h t y o u w o u l d n ’ t f i n d i t . ”

_ “Heal it!” _

“ Y o u r h e a r t i s y o u r s t o k e e p . ”

 _ “No!” _ he protests. _ “Take it, Wind! You protect me—I want _you _to have my heart!”_

And they take it.

Soon, Winter ends, and he is left roaming the peninsula. He’s wherever Wind wishes him to be, no longer curious about animals, no longer in love with the snow. Even the smell of pine, the sound of his old name soon slips away from him.

Other spirits come, he supposes—because it’s Spring, and then it’s Summer. Humans aren’t able to see him shadowing them, closely observing their daily lives at Wind’s wish. Wind is sad a lot, and desperate to keep Winter busy. They say it’s not good to spend the Summer asleep in the mountains.

Sometimes, he sees his own face inked on pieces of paper, brutally nailed to the trees. Wind always tears the posters away—they’re unimportant. It must be true. Wind always knows what’s best for him.

“ L e t ’ s p l a y w i t h t h e l a n t e r n s , ” they had suggested today, so he had gone with them, though there’s not much to do for him at the festival aside from watching Wind have their fun in the skies. He walks around the Isle like a ghost, hiding in the shadows, observing and kicking pebbles.

He coldly watches three people singing in the middle of the palace plaza—the famous Princess Rapunzel had just returned the land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wind, I get that you have the best intentions, but how about you stop protecting this boy from being human?
> 
> So basically, the idea is that while Varian doesn't remember anything before his death, he _does_ remember the last of his feelings after meeting Ruddiger. The poor floofer basically triggered an echo of Varian's last moments.
> 
> I'M HAVING A BLAST WRITING THIS BECAUSE I JUST CASUALLY SIT DOWN AND GO OFF WITHOUT A PLAN. Thank you for reading!  
> Check out Xiel's [Winter Comes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395934/chapters/61584682>) that inspired this! ❄️💙


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